Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [169]
The prisoner did not seem likely to try to escape, however. He appeared stupified, standing with his head bowed; long, lank black hair curled over his shoulders and hung down around his face. He must be about eighteen, Dulchase guessed, looking at the well-formed muscular body with envy and regret. We’re here to sit in judgment on this young man, Dulchase reasoned. But why? Why not let the Duuk-tsarith handle it? Unless he’s a catalyst? … No, impossible. No catalyst ever had muscles like that…. And why only the three of us? And why us three?
“You are wondering, Deacon Dulchase, what is going on,” Bishop Vanya said. “Again, we apologize. You, alone, I fear, are the only one in the dark. Deacon Saryon —”
At the sound of this name, the young man’s head snapped up. Tossing back the black hair, he squinted in the bright light and, as his eyes became accustomed to it, looked around.
“Father!” he cried thickly. Forgetting his bonds, the young man took a swift step forward. There was a sizzle and a smell of burning flesh. The young man sucked in his breath in pain, but beyond that made no outcry.
Amazed that the prisoner should know Saryon, Dulchase was equally amazed at Saryon’s response. Averting his eyes, the catalyst held up a hand involuntarily — not as a man warding off an attack, but as one who feels himself unworthy of being touched.
“Deacon Saryon,” Bishop Vanya was continuing imperturbably, “is aware of what is transpiring, and I will now explain it to you, Brother Dulchase. As you know, the law of Thimhallan demands that a jury of catalysts be convened to sit in judgment upon any case which involves either a catalyst or a threat to the realm. All other cases are handled by the Duuk-tsarith.”
Dulchase was only half listening to Vanya. He knew the law and he had already guessed that this must be a case involving a threat to the realm — though how this one young man threatened the realm was beyond him. Instead, Dulchase was studying the prisoner. As he did so, he began to believe this young man could be a threat.
The dark black eyes — those eyes looked familiar, where had he seen them? — staring at Saryon actually burned with an inner intensity. The brows, thick and black and drawn in a line across the bridge of the nose, bespoke a passionate inner nature; the firm jaw; the handsome, brooding face; the luxuriant black hair falling in rampant curls over the shoulders; the proud stance, the unfearing gaze…. This was truly a formidable personality, one who could conceivably shift the stars if he chose.
And where have I seen him? Dulchase asked himself again with that gnawing anger that comes from knowing something in the subconscious but without being able to drag it to the surface. I’ve seen that regal tilt of the head, that shining hair, that imperious gaze…. But where?
“The young man’s name is Joram.”
Catching the name, Dulchase’s attention turned immediately back to Vanya. No, he thought in disappointment, that name doesn’t mean anything. Yet I know —
“He is brought here on several charges, not the least of which is threatening the safety of the realm. That is why we are sitting in judgment. Perhaps you are wondering why there are only three of us, Deacon Dulchase.” Bishop Vanya’s voice took on a grim note. “You will learn that, I imagine, as I go on to present the startling and frightening facts of the case against this young man.
“Joram!” The Bishop spoke in a sharp, cold voice, apparently hoping to draw the prisoner’s gaze to himself. But he might have been a squawking parrot for all the young man cared. His gaze was on Saryon and it had never once shifted. The catalyst’s hands rested limply in his lap, his head bowed. Of the two, Dulchase fancied, the catalyst appeared more the prisoner….
“Joram, son of Anja,