Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [166]
The last time Dulchase had been here was to witness the trial of a male catalyst accused of joining with a young noble woman — Tanja or Anja or some such name. Ah! Dulchase shook his head in fond remembrance. The Hall had been crowded with members of his Order. All catalysts residing in the Font and in the home city of the accused — Merilon — had been required to attend. The details of the couple’s crime had been described graphically by the Bishop in order to impress upon his flock the enormity of such a sin. Whether or not any were deterred from temptation because of it was never established. It was known that not one catalyst fell asleep during the three-day trial, and there had been such a state of fevered excitement among the novitiates at night that Evening Prayers had been lengthened from one hour to two for a month following.
Undoubtedly the punishment of the Turning — which all were called upon to witness — had a more profound effect. Dulchase still had nightdreams over that tragic scene. He kept seeing, over and over, the one hand of the man — as the stone slowly crept over his living body — clenching in a final gesture of hatred and defiance.
Angry at having dredged up these disturbing memories, Dulchase came to a halt. “Look here,” he said stubbornly, “I insist on knowing what’s going on. Where are you taking me?” He glanced around the darkened Hall. “Where is everyone else? What’s happened to the lights?”
“Please come forward, Deacon Dulchase.” A pleasant, if stern, voice echoed in the vastness. Dulchase saw now that the light and the voice came from the same place — Merlyn’s Thumb. “All will be explained.”
“Vanya,” Dulchase muttered. He shivered, and thought with longing of his warm bed.
Years unopened, the Hall was chill and smelled of wet rock and mildewed tapestries. Sneezing, the Deacon wiped his nose on the sleeve of his robe and allowed himself to be led forward again until he came to stand, blinking like an owl in the light, before His Holiness, Bishop of the Realm.
“My dear Deacon, we apologize for disturbing your rest.”
Bishop Vanya stood up — an unheard-of phenomenon in the presence of a lowly Deacon; moreover, a Deacon who had been a Deacon for forty years and would probably die a Deacon due to his sharp tongue and unfortunate habit of speaking his mind. There were those who said Dulchase himself would have long ago been slated for a place among the Stone Guardians had it not been for the protection of a certain powerful family in court. This show of respect from his Bishop was unprecedented, yet was followed by still more. Dulchase was bowing and endeavoring to recover from the shock when Vanya actually extended his hand, not for Dulchase to kiss the ring, but to give the Deacon the pleasure of touching the pudgy fingers.
I suppose if I died now, I’d ascend directly to the Almin, the old Deacon said to himself sarcastically. But he brought the Bishop’s hand to press against his forehead with as much show of reverent ecstasy as he could muster at his age, and thought he must look very much as though he were suffering from gas. The touch of the fingers was unpleasant, as cold as a fresh-caught fish, and they trembled slightly in his grasp. Perhaps realizing this, Vanya snatched them away with unseemly haste and moved to sit back down, lowering his great red-robed bulk into the plainly shaped stone throne that sat in the