Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [167]
Glancing around, his own eyes now accustomed to the bright light and wondering what he was supposed to do next, Dulchase noted that the Duuk-tsarith who had led him here was gone; either disappeared or had become one with the shadows. But he had the feeling that there were other members of that dark Order around, watching and listening, though he could not see them. There was only one other person present in the Hall that Dulchase could see. This was an aging catalyst clad in shabby red robes who huddled in a stone chair that appeared to have been hastily conjured up next to the Bishops throne. The man’s head was bowed. All Dulchase could see of him was thinning gray hair unkempt and tousled over an unhealthy-looking gray scalp. This man had not moved during Dulchase’s welcome by the Bishop, but sat, staring down at his shoes, in a manner that was somehow familiar to the Deacon.
Dulchase tried to get a glimpse of the man’s face, but it was impossible from where he stood, and the Deacon dared do nothing to attract the man’s attention until he had been dismissed from the Bishops presence. Glancing back at Vanya, the Deacon saw that His Holiness was no longer looking at him but was motioning — so it seemed — to the darkness.
Dulchase was not surprised to see the darkness respond, coalescing into the shape of the young warlock who had brought him here. The black-hooded head bowed to hear Vanya’s whispered words and Dulchase took advantage of the moment to take a step near his fellow catalyst.
“Brother,” said Dulchase softly and kindly — his sharp tongue could be both when he chose — “I fear you are not well. Is there anything —”
At these words, the catalyst raised his head. A haggard face regarded him, tears shimmering in the eyes at the sound of a kind voice.
Dulchase’s voice died. He not only swallowed his words in his astonishment, he nearly swallowed his tongue as well.
“Saryon!”
Lost in wonder, his mind literally reeling beneath the load of shock, curiosity, and growing fear, Dulchase sank thankfully into another stone chair that appeared — at a command from another Duuk-tsarith lurking about in the shadows — at Bishop Vanya’s right hand, opposite Saryon, who sat at his left. The curiosity and shock Dulchase could account for — he had no idea what was transpiring. The fear was subtle, less easily defined, and it arose, he realized finally, from the anguished expression on Saryon’s face — an expression that had so marked the man that Dulchase wondered now, looking at him, how he had recognized him.
Though only in his forties, Saryon appeared older to Dulchase than Dulchase himself. His face was a sallow color, ashen in the bright light illuminating them from Merlyn’s Thumb. The eyes that had been the kindly, slightly preoccupied eyes of the single-minded mathematician had now become the eyes of a man caught in a trap. He watched Saryon searching as if for escape, the eyes sometimes darting here and there frantically, but more often focused on Bishop Vanya with a look of despairing hopefulness that wrung the Deacon’s heart with pity.
This was what engendered the Deacon’s fear. Older than Saryon and more worldly wise than the sheltered scholar, Dulchase saw no hope for the wretched catalyst in the Bishop’s smooth, composed face or His Holiness’s cold, glittering gaze. Worse still had been the touch of those fishlike fingers. Dulchase had the sudden terrible feeling that he had lived too long….
He fidgeted in the cold stone chair that the heat from his body appeared incapable of warming. It had been a half-hour since his arrival and no one had spoken a word, other than the Duuk-tsarith with their whispered spell-casting and conjuring of furniture. Dulchase stared at Saryon, Saryon stared at Vanya, and the Bishop stared, scowling, into the darkness of the vast Hall.
If this doesn’t end soon, I’ll say something I’ll regret,