Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [6]
“You are so certain it is the truth?” The words were strained.
“Do you deny it?” Saryon cried grimly. Halting in his pacing, he stared up into the rafters of the prison cell as though his Bishop hovered among them. “Do you deny that you sent me here purposefully, hoping that I would find out?”
There was a long moment’s hesitation; Saryon had a mental image of a man looking over a hand of tarok cards, wondering which to play.
“Have you told Joram?”
There was very real fear in this question, a fear that was palpable to Saryon, a fear he thought he understood.
“No, of course not,” the catalyst replied. “How could I tell him such a fantastic tale? He would not believe me, not without proof. And I have none to give.”
“Yet you mentioned adding all factors?” Vanya persisted.
Saryon shook his head impatiently. He began to pace again, but stopped short at the cell window. Day had dawned completely now. Light streamed into the cold prison house, and the village of the Sorcerers was beginning to waken. Smoke curled upward, blown raggedly in the whipping wind. A few early risers were up and trudging to work already, or were inspecting their dwellings for damage from last nights storm. Off in the distance, he saw one of Blachloch’s guards hurrying between the buildings at a run.
Where was Joram? Why hasn’t he returned? Saryon wondered. Immediately he shoved the thought from his mind and began pacing again, hoping the activity would help him concentrate and warm him at the same time.
“All factors?” he repeated thoughtfully. “Yes, there are … other factors. The young man looks like his mother, the Empress. Oh, not a striking resemblance. His face is hardened by the difficult life he has led. His brows are thick and brooding, he rarely smiles. But he has her hair, beautiful black hair that curls down around his shoulders. I am told his mother — that is, the woman who raised him — refused to let it be cut. And there is an expression in his eyes sometimes — regal, haughty….” Saryon sighed. His mouth was dry. The tears in his throat tasted like blood. “Then, of course, he is Dead, Holiness —”
“There are many Dead who walk this world.”
The Bishop is trying to find out how much I know, Saryon realized suddenly. Or maybe looking for proof. His legs weak, the catalyst sank down at the small, plain table standing near the firepit. Lifting the hand-fashioned clay pitcher, he started to pour himself a drink, only to discover that the water inside was covered with a layer of ice. Casting a bitter glance at the cold ashes of the firepit, Saryon set the pitcher back upon the table with a thud.
“I know that there are many Dead, Holiness,” the catalyst said heavily, still speaking aloud. “I myself found enough of them in Merilon, if you remember. To be declared Dead, a baby had to fail two of the three tests for magic. But you and I both know, Holiness, that these Dead still possess some magic, even if it is very little.” He swallowed painfully, his parched throat aching. “I never saw a baby — except one — who failed all three tests. Failed them utterly. And that baby was the Prince of Merilon. And I have never met a person, not even among the so-called Dead who live in our settlement, who has no magic — except one. Joram. He is Dead, Holiness. Truly Dead. No Life stirs within him at all.”
“Is this a matter of common knowledge among the Sorcerers there?” The interrogation continued relentlessly. Saryon’s head began to throb. He longed for quiet, longed to rid himself of the probing voice. But he couldn’t think how to do it, short of dashing his head against the brick wall. Biting his lip, he answered the question.
“No. Joram has learned to hide his deficiency superbly. He is skilled in illusion and sleight of hand. Apparently that woman who passed herself off as his