Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [183]
It seemed he had learned his lesson, for now he stood as though struck senseless by despair, unseeing, uncaring. The Duuk-tsarith led his stumbling footsteps to the spoked wheel in the sand and positioned him in its center. He moved mechanically, no will of his own remaining in the body. The Bishop found his gaze drawn irresistibly from the young man to the corpse of his mother. The resemblance was uncanny and Vanya hastily shifted his gaze, a shudder making the rolls of fat at the back of his head quiver.
The prisoner was now the responsibility of the Executioner. The gray-robed warlock made a subtle gesture with his hand. The Duuk-tsarith guarding the young man prepared to leave.
“Joram!” cried a broken voice from outside the circle. “Joram! I —”
The words were cut off in a choked sob.
Joram raised his head, saw who it was that cried his name, and turned his gaze on the Executioner. “Take her away. Make them take her away!” he said in low, fierce tones. His eyes burned with a dull, sullen, dying glow. The muscles in the arms bunched spasmodically, the hands clenched, and the Duuk-tsarith remained standing near.
“Let me speak to him,” Saryon said.
“I want no words of yours, catalyst!” Joram snarled. “I want nothing for myself!” He lifted his voice; it was tinged with darkness, madness, and the Duuk-tsarith drew closer. “Take the girl away! She is innocent! Take her away or I swear by the Almin I’ll scream the truth until my mouth is stone — Ahhh!”
The young man cried out in pain, the fiery rings closing around him, burning his flesh.
“Please!” Saryon pleaded desperately.
The Executioner’s hooded head moved slightly. He made a gesture with his hand and the Duuk-tsarith backed away. Dropping the Darksword in the sand at the Executioner’s feet, Saryon turned and floundered through the sand toward Joram. The young man watched him, bitter hatred in his eyes. When Saryon drew close, Joram spit on the catalysts shoes. Saryon cringed, as though he had been struck across the face.
“With my next breath, I call the Emperor ‘Father,’” Joram said through clenched teeth. “Tell them that, traitor! Unless she is freed —”
“Joram, don’t you understand?” Saryon said softly. “That is why she is here! To insure your silence. I have been told to tell you that — if you speak — she will meet the same fate as your moth — as Anja. She will be cast out of her family and out of the city.”
Saryon saw the flame in Joram’s soul burning violently and, for a moment, he thought the fire might consume whatever was good and noble in the young man.
What can I say? the catalyst thought frantically. No platitudes will save him now. Only the truth. Yet it may drive him over the edge and he will drag her down with him.
“I warned you, my son,” Saryon said, looking into the smoldering eyes. “I warned you of the grief that you would bring upon her, upon us all. You would not listen. Your life has been so centered on your own pain that you have never felt the pain of others. Feel it now, Joram. Feel it and cherish it, because it will be the last thing upon this earth that you will ever feel. That pain will be your salvation. I would to God” — the catalyst bowed his head — “that it were mine.”
For a moment, there was silence, broken only by the whisper of the wind through the sand and by Joram’s harsh breathing. Then Saryon heard a catch in the breath and looked up quickly. The flame in the eyes flickered, then — drowned by tears — it died. A sob wrenched the body, the shoulders heaved. Joram sank to his knees in the sand.
“Help me, Father!” He gagged on his tears. “I am afraid! So afraid!”
“Get rid of these!” Saryon ordered the Duuk-tsarith, making a furious gesture at the fiery rings. Hesitating, the warlocks looked to the Executioner, who nodded peremptorily. Time was running out.
The fiery rings vanished.
Kneeling beside Joram, Saryon clasped his arms around the young man. The muscular body stiffened, then relaxed. Burying his head in the catalysts shoulder, Joram shut his eyes, shut out the sight of the Executioner