Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [28]
Mosiah shifted uneasily, but said nothing.
Saryon sighed. He could expect no help from this ally, he could see that now — and this was his only ally.
The catalyst knew that Mosiah agreed with him in his head, but it was the young man’s heart that kept his tongue silent in the matter. Mosiah, too, longed to see Merilon the Beautiful — the fabled, enchanted city of dreams.
Saryon sighed again, and saw Mosiah’s face grow tense; evidently fearing that the catalyst would take up the matter once more.
Saryon didn’t bring up his arguments, however. He kept silent, glancing about nervously, all his fears and terrors of the wilderness returning to him.
“Goodnight, Father,” Mosiah said awkwardly, resting his hand on Saryon’s shoulder. “I’ll help you argue with Joram in the morning, though I don’t think it will do much good.”
He went over to lie down upon the cold ground, huddling near Joram for warmth. Within moments, he, too, was asleep — sleeping the sleep of youthful innocence. The catalyst stared at him in gloomy jealousy. Then Simkin sent the moths away, and the night returned. The darkness seemed to crawl out from the clawed trees, obliterating everything from sight. Saryon shivered in the chill air.
“I’ll keep watch,” Simkin offered. “I slept all day, and whacking that lout quite stirred up my blood. Put your bald head to bed, Father.”
Saryon was tired, so tired that he hoped sleep might overwhelm him, shutting down the waterwheel of thoughts that cranked over and over in his mind. But the terrors of the wilderness and the sound of Joram’s voice saying “Merilon” flowed through the catalysts brain and kept the wheels turning.
The bitter-cold winds of approaching evening rustled the few dead leaves still clinging stubbornly to the trees. Clutching his robes close about him, Saryon tried to shake off the growing feelings of gloom and despair. He told himself they were due to his fatigue and the horror over the death of the warlock that was only gradually beginning to fade from his mind.
But he wasn’t succeeding, and now this announced decision of Joram’s made matters worse.
Saryon shifted restlessly, shivering with cold and fear. The slightest noise made him cringe in terror. Were those eyes, staring at him from the shadows? He sat up in alarm, looking wildly around for Simkin. The young man was sitting peacefully on a tree stump. Saryon fancied he could see Simkin’s eyes shining in the darkness like an animal’s, and they appeared to be watching him with amusement. The catalyst huddled back down in his robes, shut his own eyes against the night, and tried to take his mind off his fear and cold by going over and over what he intended to say to Joram tomorrow.
Eventually, the wheel bogged down and ceased to turn. The catalyst drifted into a dream-haunted, restless sleep. His hand went reassuringly to the darkstone that hung around his neck, and he realized, sleepily, that the ore’s power had apparently worked.
Bishop Vanya had not contacted him.
Saryon woke next morning, aching and stiff. Though he was not hungry, he forced himself to eat. “Joram,” he said reluctantly, mechanically chewing and swallowing stale bread, “we must talk.”
“Brace yourself, my friend,” said Simkin cheerfully, “Father Spoilsport intends to talk you out of going to Merilon.”
Joram’s face darkened, his expression grew stern, and Saryon cast an irritated glance at the mischievous Simkin, who simply grinned innocently and sat back upon his stump, legs crossed, to enjoy the fun.
“Bishop Vanya will expect you to go to Merilon, Joram!” Saryon argued. “He knows about Anja and her promise that you would find fame and fortune there. He’ll be waiting, and so will the Duuk-tsarith!”
Joram listened in silence, then he shrugged. “The Duuk-tsarith are everywhere,” he said coolly. “It seems that I am in danger no matter where I go. Isn’t that true?”
Saryon could not deny it.
“Then, I will go to Merilon,” Joram said calmly. “My birthright