Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [5]
“Yes, Holiness,” Saryon murmured, only half listening, trying desperately to think what to do.
“The king of Sharakan plans to use the Sorcerers weapons to help him in his conquest. Although Blachloch appears to be furthering the ambitions of Sharakan and helping the Sorcerers, he is — in reality — preparing to lead them into a deadly trap. Thus we will be able to defeat Sharakan and crush the Sorcerers utterly, finally banishing them from this world. Blachloch has everything under control, or at least he had until the young man — this Joram — discovered darkstone.”
As Vanya grew angrier, his thoughts became gradually more rambling and incoherent. Saryon could no longer follow them. Sensing this, there was a moment of seething silence as Vanya attempted to regain control, then his communication continued, somewhat calmer.
“The discovery of darkstone is catastrophic, Father! Surely you see that? It can give Sharakan the power to win! That is why it is imperative that you and Blachloch bring the young man and the dreadful force he has brought back into this world to the Font at once, before Sharakan discovers it.”
Saryon’s head began to ache with the strain. Fortunately, his own thoughts were in such turmoil that he must have transmitted only confused and scattered fragments: Blachloch a double agent … the darkstone a threat to the world … the Sorcerers walking into a trap….
Joram … Joram … Joram.
Saryon grew calmer. He knew now what he must do. None of the rest of it was important. Wars between kingdoms. The lives of thousands. It was too enormous to comprehend. But the life of one?
How can I take him back, knowing the fate he faces? And I do know it now, Saryon admitted to himself. I was blind to it before, but only because I deliberately shut my eyes.
The catalyst lifted his head, staring intently into the darkness. “Holiness,” he said out loud, interrupting the Bishop’s tirade. “I know who Joram is.”
Vanya stopped cold. Saryon sensed doubt, caution, fear. But these were gone almost immediately. Nearly eighty years old, the Bishop of the Realm of Thimhallan had held his position for over forty of those years. He was highly skilled at his job.
“What do you mean” — the Bishop’s thoughts came across as genuinely confused — “you know who he is? He is Joram, son of a mad woman named Anja….”
Saryon felt himself gaining strength. At last, he was able to confront the truth.
“He is Joram,” the catalyst said in low tones, “son of the Emperor of Merilon.”
2
A State of Grace
There was silence within the silence of the cell. So deep was it that, for a moment, Saryon thought — hoped — that Vanya had broken contact.
Then the words reverberated in his head once more. “How did you come by this supposed knowledge, Father Saryon?” The catalyst could feel the Bishop treading carefully on the soft, unknown ground. “Did Blachloch —”
“By the Almin, did he know?” Saryon spoke aloud again in his amazement. “No,” he continued in some confusion, “no one told me. No one had to. I just … knew. How?” He shrugged helplessly. “How do I know how much magic to draw from the world and give to a shaper of wood so that he may mold a chair? It is a matter of calculation, of adding all factors together — the man’s weight and height, his ability, his age, the degree of difficulty in his project…. Do I think of these things consciously? No! I have done it so often, the answer comes to me without thinking about how I have obtained it.
“And so, Holiness, this was how I came to know Joram’s true identity.” Saryon shook his head, closing his eyes. “My god, I held him in my arms! That baby, born Dead, doomed to die! I was the last person to hold him!” Tears crept beneath his eyelids. “I took him to the nursery that terrible day and I sat beside his crib and rocked him in my arms for hours. I knew that once I laid him down, no other person would be permitted to touch him until you took him to … to the Font.” Saryon