Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [2]
“Saryon!” The voice was stern, urgent and commanding, and it finally roused the catalyst from his confused exhaustion.
“What?” Shivering in his wet robes, Saryon looked around. He was not in the sanctuary of the Font. He was in a chill prison cell. Death surrounded him. Brick walls — stone made by the hands of man, not shaped by magic. The wood-beam ceiling above bore the gouges of tools. Cold metal bars forged by the hand of the Dark Arts seemed a barrier against Life itself. “Joram?” Saryon called softly through teeth clenched against the cold.
But a glance told him the young man was not in the prison cell, his bed had not been slept in.
“Of course not,” Saryon said to himself, shuddering. Joram was in the wilderness, disposing of the body…. But then, whose had been the voice he heard so clearly?
The catalyst’s head sank into his shaking hands. “Take my life, Almin!” he prayed fervently. “If you truly do exist, take my life and end this torment, this misery. For now I am going mad —”
“Saryon! You cannot avoid me, if such is your intent! You will listen to me! You have no choice!”
The catalyst raised his head, his eyes wide and staring, his body convulsing with a chill that was colder than the breath of the bitterest winter wind. “Holiness?” he called through trembling lips. Rising stiffly to his feet, the catalyst looked around the small cell. “Holiness? Where are you? I can’t see you, yet I hear — I don’t understand …”
“I am present in your mind, Saryon,” the voice said. “I speak to you from the Font. How I am able to accomplish this need be of little importance to you, Father. My powers are very great. Are you alone?”
“Y-yes, Holiness, for the moment. But I —”
“Organize your thoughts, Saryon!” The voice sounded impatient again. “They are such a jumble I cannot read them! You need not speak. Think the words you say and I will hear them. I will give you a moment to calm yourself with prayer, then I expect you to be ready to attend me.”
The voice fell silent. Saryon was still conscious of its presence inside his head, buzzing like an insect in his mind. Hurriedly he sought to compose himself, but it was not with prayer. Though he had begged only moments before that the Almin take his life — and though he had sincerely meant that despairing plea — Saryon felt a primal urge for self-survival well up inside him. The very fact that Bishop Vanya was able to invade his mind like this appalled him and filled him with anger — though he knew that the anger was wrong. As a humble catalyst, he should be proud, he supposed, that the great Bishop would spare time to investigate his unworthy thoughts. But deep within, from that same dark place whence had come his nightdreams, a voice asked coldly, How much does he know? Is there any way I can hide from him?
“Holiness,” said Saryon hesitantly, turning around in the center of the dark room, staring fearfully about him as though the Bishop might at any moment step out of the brick wall, “I … find it difficult to compose my … thoughts. My inquisitive mind —”
“The same inquisitive mind that has led you to walk dark paths?” the Bishop asked in displeasure.
“Yes, Holiness,” Saryon replied humbly. “I admit this is my weakness, but it prevents me attending to your words without knowing how and by what means we are communicating. I —”
“Your thoughts are in turmoil! We can accomplish nothing useful this way. Very well.” Bishop Vanya’s voice, echoing in Saryon’s mind, sounded angry, if resigned. “It is necessary, Father, that as spiritual leader of our people, I keep in contact with the far-flung reaches of this world. As you know, there are those out there who seek to reduce our Order to little more than what we were in the ancient days — familiars who served our masters in the form