Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [49]
“One morning, the overseer ordered the catalyst to give Joram Life so that he could fly over the fields and aid in the planting like the other Field Magi. The catalyst gave the boy Life, but he might as well have given it to a rock. Joram could no more fly than a corpse can breathe. The catalyst — not a very bright member of our Order, I am afraid,” Saryon added, shaking his head, “cried out that the young man was Dead. The overseer was well-pleased, no doubt, and began talking of sending for the Duuk-tsarith.
“At this point, Anja completely lost whatever tenuous hold she had on sanity. Changing her form into that of a were-tiger, she leaped for the throat of the overseer. He reacted instinctively, shielding himself with his magic. The shield was too powerful. Fiery bolts of energy struck Anja, and she fell dead at his feet. Her son watched, helpless.”
“Name of the Almin,” whispered the Prince reverently.
“Joram picked up a heavy stone,” Saryon continued, speaking steadily, “and threw it at the overseer. The man never saw it coming. It smashed his skull. So now Joram was twice damned — first he was one of the walking Dead, now he had committed murder.
“He fled into the Outlands. There he was attacked and left for dead by centaurs. Blachloch’s men, who were always on the watch for those who enter the Outlands, and particularly for one they knew might be persuaded to join their foul cause, discovered the young man and brought him back to the village. The Sorcerers nursed him back to health and set him to work in the forge. He did not join Blachloch, however. I don’t know why, except that he resents any figure of authority, as you have seen.”
“The forge … Was that where he learned the secret of the darkstone?”
“No, Your Grace.” Saryon swallowed again. “That is a secret not even the Sorcerers themselves know. It has been lost to them through the centuries —”
“So we had been led to believe.”
“But Joram found books — ancient texts — that the Sorcerers had brought with them when they fled into exile. They have lost the ability to read over the years. Poor people. Theirs is a daily struggle just to survive. But Joram could read the books, of course, and it was in one that he discovered the formula for extracting the metal from the darkstone ore. With this knowledge, he forged the sword.”
The catalyst fell silent. He was aware of Garald’s intense gaze turned now upon him and, his head bowed, Saryon nervously smoothed the folds of his shabby robe.
“You are leaving something unsaid, Father,” the Prince remarked coolly.
“I am leaving a great deal unsaid, Your Grace,” said the catalyst simply, lifting his head and looking directly at the Prince. “I am a poor liar, I know. Yet the secret I carry in my heart is not my own and would prove dangerous knowledge to those involved. Better that I bear it alone.”
There was a quiet dignity about the middle-aged man, dressed in the humble, worn robes of his calling, that impressed Garald. There was a sorrow about him, too, as if this burden was almost too heavy to bear, yet bear it he would until he dropped. The man has lost his faith, the Cardinal had said. This secret is all he has ….
That, and his pity and love for Joram.
“Tell me about darkstone,” said the Prince, letting the catalyst know that he would not press him further. Saryon smiled in gentle thanks, relieved.
“I know very little, Your Grace,” he answered. “Just what I was able to read in the texts, which were very incomplete. The writers assumed that rudimentary knowledge of the ore was well-known,