Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [170]
Joram — that was the young man’s name apparently — refused to answer, lifting his chin in the air. The movement sent a thrill of recognition through Dulchase — a thrill, yet frustration, too. He knew this kid! Yet he didn’t. It was like an itching in the small of the back that one could never quite scratch.
The warlock spoke another word. The rings flashed, there was that horrible sizzle and smell and a quick, agonized gasp from the young man.
“I plead guilty,” Joram said, but he said it proudly in a rich, deep voice. “I was born Dead. It was the Almin’s will, as I was taught by one I respect and honor.” He glanced again at Saryon, who appeared so crushed by this that he might never rise again.
“Joram, son of Anja, you are charged with the murder of the overseer of the village of Walren. You are charged with the murder of a warlock of the Duuk-tsarith,” Vanya continued severely. “How do you plead to these?”
“Guilty,” Joram said again, though there was less pride. The dark face became unreadable. “They deserved death,” he muttered in low tones. “One killed my mother. The other was a man of evil.”
“Your mother attacked the overseer. The man of evil — as you call him — was acting in the interests of the realm,” Bishop Vanya said coldly. The young man did not reply, but simply stared back at him defiantly, the dark eyes steady and unwavering.
“These are serious charges, Joram. The taking of a life for any reason is most strongly forbidden by the Almin. For that alone you could be sentenced to Beyond….”
At last, something touched Saryon, lifting the man from his stupor of despair. The catalyst raised his head, looking swiftly and meaningfully at Bishop Vanya. Dulchase saw a glint of spirit — fear and anger brought life to the haunted eyes. The Bishop, however, appeared oblivious to the catalyst’s stare.
“But these charges pale before the crimes against the state that have brought you here to be sentenced….”
So that’s why there’s only three of us, Dulchase realized. Secrets of the realm and all that. And, of course, that’s why I’m being made a Cardinal — to keep my mouth shut.
“Joram, son of Anja, you are charged with consorting with Sorcerers of the Dark Arts. You are charged with having read forbidden books …”
Dulchase saw Joram’s dark eyes shift to gaze upon Saryon once more, this time in shock. He saw Saryon, his brief flicker of spirit quenched, curl in upon himself, writhing in guilt. Dulchase saw the young man’s splendid shoulders slump, he heard Joram sigh. It was a small sigh, but a sigh of such exquisite pain that it wrenched Dulchase’s cynical heart. The proud head turned away from the catalyst, the black hair falling over the face as though the young man would hide willingly within that darkness forever.
“Joram! Forgive me!” Saryon burst out, stretching forth his hands beseechingly. “I had to tell them! If you only knew —”
“Deacon!” Vanya said in a taut, almost shrill voice. “You forget yourself!”
“I beg your pardon, Holiness,” Saryon murmured, shrinking back into his chair. “It won’t happen again.”
“Joram, son of Anja,” the Bishop continued, breathing heavily, his hands crawling on the arms of the stone chair. He leaned forward. “You are charged with the heinous crime of bringing darkstone — the cursed product of the Prince of Demons — back into a world that had banished it long ago. You are charged with the forging of a weapon out of this demonic ore! Joram, son of Anja, how do you plead? How do you plead?”
There was silence — a noisy silence, but silence nonetheless. Vanya’s labored breathing, Saryon’s ragged breaths, the hissing of the glowing rings, all beat at the silence but could not penetrate it. Dulchase knew that the young man would not answer. He saw the fiery rings