Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [18]
“What? Have they discovered the body?”
“No. Another danger. A more deadly one. I — You know that I was sent by … Bishop Vanya to … bring you back. I told you that, when I first came.”
“Yes,” returned Joram, his heavy black brows coming together to form a thick black line across his face. “You told me — after Simkin had told me, but you told me.”
Saryon flushed. “I know you don’t trust me, but … listen! Bishop Vanya has contacted me again. Don’t ask how, the means are magical.” The catalyst’s hand went to a pocket in his robes where he had secreted the darkstone. Taking hold of it, he clasped it reassuringly. “He demands that Blachloch and I bring you to the Font, you and the Darksword.”
“Vanya knows about the Darksword?” Joram hissed. “You told —”
“Not I!” Saryon gasped. “Blachloch! The wizard is — was — the Bishops agent — Duuk-tsarith. I don’t have time to explain everything now, Joram. The Bishop will soon find out that Blachloch is dead and that you killed him, using the darkstone. He will send the Duuk-tsarith here to apprehend you. He must, he fears the power of the Darksword —”
“He wants the power of the Darksword,” Joram amended grimly.
Saryon blinked; that was something he had not considered. “Perhaps,” he said, swallowing, his throat raw from the need to shout to be heard. “But we must leave, Joram! Every moment that passes, our danger grows!”
“Our danger!” Joram smiled the half-smile that was nearer a twisted, bitter grimace. “You are in no danger, Catalyst! Why don’t you just hand me over to your Bishop?” He turned his head away from the catalyst’s intense gaze, thrusting the cooling spear-point back into the coals. “You’re afraid of me, after all. You’re afraid of the darkstone. It was my hand that killed Blachloch. You’re innocent of that.” Bringing the spear-point back out with his tongs, Joram rested it upon the anvil. For long moments, he stared at it, unseeing. “We’ll be going into the Outland,” he said, his voice so soft that Saryon had to lean close to hear above the pounding behind him. “You know the danger, the risks we’ll face. Especially since neither of us is powerful in magic. Why? Why do you want to go with me?”
Joram returned to his work, keeping his face averted.
Why indeed? Saryon asked himself, staring at the bent head; the strong shoulders, naked in the heat of the forge; the crisp, black hair that had fought loose of its braid and hung down in shining tendrils around the cold, stern young face. There was something in the voice…. Thick with fatigue, it was thick with fear. And something else — hope?
Joram is afraid, Saryon realized. He plans to leave the village and he’s been trying to get up the courage to go into those strange, savage lands by himself.
Who do I want to go with you, Joram? A burning lump formed in the catalysts throat, as though he had swallowed one of the hot coals. I could tell you that I held you once in my arms. I could tell you that you rested your small head upon my shoulder, that I rocked you to sleep. I could tell you that you are the Prince of Merilon, heir to the throne, and that I can prove it!
But no, I cannot tell you that now. I don’t think I can ever tell you. With this dangerous knowledge and the bitter anger inside you, Joram, you would bring tragedy down upon all of us — your parents, the innocent people of Merilon …
Saryon shuddered. No, he repeated. At least I will not be guilty of that sin! I will carry the secret to my death. Yet what other reason can I give to this young man? I want to go with you, Joram, because I care about you, what happens to you? How he would sneer at this …
“I am going with you,” answered Saryon finally, “because I seek to regain my own faith. The Church once stood, for me, as strong as the mountain fastness of the Font. Now I see it crumbling, falling in deceit and greed. I told you that I could not go back to it. I meant that.”
Joram turned from his work to face the catalyst. The dark eyes were cool and dispassionate,