Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [184]
To stand, forever, year after year, gnawed at by the passage of time, always waking, always dreaming, never to find rest …
“Help me!”
“My son!” Saryon cradled the burned, anguished body, smoothing the long black hair. “For you are my son! It was I who gave you life,” he muttered. “And now I will give you life again!”
The catalyst’s arms tightened their grip on the young man. “Be ready!” Saryon whispered with sudden intensity into Joram’s ear.
Hands took hold of Saryon; the Duuk-tsarith pulled him back and shoved him aside. Grabbing hold of Joram, they dragged the young man to his feet and positioned him once more in the center of what had once been a spoked wheel drawn in the sand but was now a confused muddle. Taking a position on either side of him, the Duuk-tsarith grasped Joram’s arms firmly and held him in readiness for the Turning.
Blinking back his tears, Joram ignored the warlocks. He stared at the catalyst in wonder and saw unusual firmness and resolve on Saryon’s haggard face as he slowly, and with seeming disgust and reluctance, lifted the Darksword in its scabbard from the sand. He held it up before him, one hand just below the hilt.
Joram, watching intently, saw Saryon — with a quick jerk of his hand — loosen the sword in the scabbard. The young man glanced around swiftly to make certain no one had noticed. No one did. All eyes were fixed upon the Executioner. Joram tensed, ready, though he had no idea what Saryon’s plan might be.
The young man heard Gwendolyn sobbing; he heard the catalysts begin their prayers, drawing the Life from the world. Clasping hands, they began to focus their energies upon the Executioner. Joram heard the Executioner begin to chant, but he shut the sound from his mind. He shut out all the sounds as he had shut out the sight of the world from his eyes moments before. He concentrated on Saryon with his entire soul, his entire being. He knew that if he let it, fear would take hold of him again and claim him for its own.
Bishop Vanya rose ponderously, once again, to his feet. In a loud, sonorous voice that carried above the sound of the chanting and praying and blowing wind, he read the charges.
“Joram. (Dispensing with parenting to the puzzlement of some, he cast a sidelong, uncomfortable glance at the Emperor, who was seen to smile slightly.) You are a Dead man who walks among the Living. You are charged with the taking of the lives of two citizens of Thimhallan. Further, and most heinous, you are charged with having consorted with Sorcerers of the Dark Arts and with having created, while living among them, a weapon of evil that is an abomination in this world. You have been found guilty of these charges by a tribunal of catalysts.
“Their judgment is that you be Turned to Stone, set to stand here upon the Borders of our land, an eternal warning to those who might be tempted to walk the same dark paths you trod. The last light of your eyes will fall upon the tool of demons you forged. When all is ended, the symbol of the foul arts that ensnared you will be carven upon your chest. May the Almin grant that in the long years to come, you repent of your crimes and that you find forgiveness in His sight.
“May He have mercy upon your soul. Executioner, do your duty.”
Joram heard the words and there was an instant when he struggled with himself, anger welling up within him so that it seemed the truth must burst out. He longed to wipe the sanctimonious expressions from the faces of those around him, longed to see them sweating and pale. His gaze went to the Emperor, his father, and a wild hope sprang up in Joram’s breast. He will support me! the young man thought. He knows who I am, that’s why he is here. He has come to save me!
Joram’s gaze shifted abruptly, as though drawn by some word meant for