Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [4]
Outside the prison, the wind — a last remnant of last night’s storm — struck the walls, beating against them in a futile effort to break in. Saryon heard words in the wind. He had heard them seventeen years ago — Bishop Vanya sentencing a child to death.
“Father!” Vanya’s voice, taut and cold, was an echo of the memory. “You are wandering again!”
“I — I assure you I am fine, Holiness,” Saryon stammered. “You have no need to be concerned about me.”
“I thank the Almin for that, Father,” Vanya said in the same tone he used to thank the Almin for his morning egg and bread. Again he paused. Saryon sensed some inner turmoil, a mental struggle. The next words were reluctant. “The time has come, Father, for you and your … um … guardian — my associate — to make contact. I know about the creation of the Darksword —”
Saryon gasped.
“— and now we can delay no longer. Our danger from this young man is too great.” Vanya’s voice grew cold. “You must bring Joram to the Font as soon as possible, and you will need my associates assistance. Go to Blachloch. Inform him that I —”
“Blachloch!” Saryon sank down on the cot, his heart beating in his ears with the din of Joram’s hammer. “Your associate?” The catalyst put his shaking hands to his head. “Holiness, you can’t mean Blachloch! …”
“I assure you, Father —”
“He’s a renegade, an outcast of the Duuk-tsarith! He —”
“Outcast? He is no more an outcast warlock than you are an outcast priest, Saryon! He is one of the Duuk-tsarith, a high-ranking member of their organization, hand-picked for this delicate assignment, just as you were.”
Saryon pressed his hands against his head as though he might actually keep his scattered thoughts from tumbling about his brain. Blachloch, the cruel, mudererous warlock, was Duuk-tsarith, a member of the secret society whose duty it was to enforce the laws in Thimhallan. He was an agent for the Church! And he was also responsible for cold-blooded murder, for raiding a village and stealing its provisions, for leaving its people to starve in the winter….
“Holiness” — Saryon licked his dry, cracked lips — “this warlock was … an evil man! A wicked man! He — I saw him kill a young Deacon of our Order in the village of —”
The Bishop interrupted. “Have you not heard the old saying, ‘Night’s shadows are deepest to those who walk in the light’? Let us not be too hasty in our judgment of ordinary mortals, Father. If you reflect back calmly upon the incident of which you speak, I am certain you will find the killing was motivated by necessity, or perhaps it was accidental.”
Saryon saw the warlock call upon the wind, he saw the gale-force blast pick up the defenseless Deacon as though he were a leaf and toss him against the side of a dwelling. He saw the young body crumple lifelessly to the ground.
“Holiness,” ventured Saryon, shuddering.
“Enough, Father!” the Bishop said sternly. “I do not have time for your sanctimonious whinings. Blachloch does what is necessary to maintain his disguise as a renegade warlock. He plays a dangerous game among those Sorcerers of the Dark Arts who surround you, Saryon. What is one life, after all, compared to the lives of thousands or the souls of millions! And that is what he holds in his hand.”
“I don’t understand —”
“Then give me a chance to explain! I tell you this in the strictest confidence, Father. I told you before you left of the trouble we are having in the northern kingdom of Sharakan. It worsens daily. The catalysts who have abandoned the laws of our Order are growing in popularity and in numbers. They are giving freely of their power of Life to anyone who asks. Because of this, the king of Sharakan believes he can treat us with impunity. He has impounded Church funds and put them into his treasury. He has sent the Cardinal into exile, and replaced him with one of these renegade catalysts. He plans to invade and conquer