Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [133]
The words were meaningless to Saryon. It was as if he were hearing a tale told by one of the House Magi before bedtime. He stared at the Bishop, who said nothing more. He was regarding Saryon intently, letting the impact of the words come from within the man rather than without, knowing that this way it would have the most profound effect.
It did. Understanding hit Saryon like the thrust of a sword, sliding into his body, cutting through to his very soul.
“Born to the Royal House … one who is dead … live … die again … destruction of the world….”
“Name of the Almin!” Saryon choked. The sword of his realization might have been made of steel, draining him of life. “What have I done? What have I done?” he cried in despair. A wild hope throbbed in his heart. He’s lying! He’s lied to me before….
But there was no lie on Vanya’s face. There was only fear — stark and real.
Saryon moaned. “What have I done?” he repeated in misery.
“Nothing that can’t be undone!” Vanya said urgently, leaning forward to grasp the catalyst’s hand. “Give us Joram! You must! Never mind how it happened, but the Prophecy is slowly being fulfilled! He was born Dead, he lived. Now he has darkstone — the weapon of the Dark Arts that came near destroying our world the last time!”
Saryon shook his head. “I don’t know,” he cried brokenly. “I can’t think….”
Bishop Vanya’s face flushed an ugly red, the pudgy hand clenched in frustration and anger. “You fool!” he began furiously, his voice breaking.
This is it, Saryon thought fearfully. Now he will send for the warlocks. And what will I tell them? Can I betray him, even now?
But Vanya regained control of himself, though it was with an obvious effort. Sucking in several deep breaths through his nose, he forced his hand to relax and he even managed to look at the catalyst with a smile, though it was closer to the smile of a corpse than of living man.
“Saryon,” he said in hollow tones, “I know why you are protecting this young man, and it is very commendable of you. To love and help one’s fellow man is why the Almin places us in this world. And I promise you, Saryon — by all that is holy, by all I believe in — that this young man will not be killed.” The Bishop’s red face became mottled, splotched with white. “Indeed,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his robe, “how can we kill him? ‘Die again.’ That’s what the Prophecy says. We must insure that he lives. That will be our care….”
The tension on Saryon’s face eased. “Yes!” he whispered to himself. “Yes, that is true. Joram must not die! He must live —”
“It was what I sought to do when he was a babe,” Vanya said softly, his eyes on Saryon. “He would have been nurtured, protected, sheltered. But that wretched, insane woman …” He stopped talking, holding his breath.
Saryon’s face was bathed in radiance, his eyes turned upward to heaven. “Blessed Almin!” the catalyst whispered, tears coursing down his cheeks. “Forgive me! Forgive me!”
Dropping his head into his hands, Saryon began to weep, feeling the darkness pour out of his soul, purging it as the Theldara purges a festering wound.
Bishop Vanya smiled. Standing up, he walked over to the bed and sat down beside the sobbing catalyst. He put his arm around Saryon and drew him close.
“You are forgiven, my son,” said the Bishop smoothly. “You are forgiven…. Now, tell me …”
BOOK THREE
1
Among the Clouds
Carriages for hire stood in line on Conveyance Lane, waiting for customers. Beautiful, bizarre, ofttimes both, the equipages were fantastic beyond imagining. Winged squirrels drawing gilded nutshells, diamond-encrusted pumpkins pulled by teams of mice (these were quite popular with teenage girls), and the more staid and conservative assortment of griffin- and unicorn-pulled conveyances, designed for Guildmasters and others who preferred less ostentatious means of travel. Impatient to be gone, Joram would have chosen the first carriage at the stand — a giant