Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [67]
“Not necessarily, Father,” Radisovik put in mildly. “There are more than a few who slip through the bureaucratic cracks, so to speak. A minor house catalyst of no importance — such as this Father Dunstable — who moves with his family to an outlying district might well lose contact with his church for a number of years.”
“But why should I — I mean Father Dunstable — come back to Merilon? Begging your pardon, Eminence,” Saryon said humbly but persistently, “but the Prince has emphasized our danger …”
“You have an excellent point, Father,” Garald said. “There are any number of reasons for your return. The wizard you served took it into his head to join the rebellious scum in Sharakan, for example, and left you to fend for yourself.”
“This is serious, milord.” Radisovik ventured a mild reproach.
“So am I,” Garald returned coolly. “But perhaps that would draw too much attention to you, Father. How’s this? The wizard dies. His widow returns to Zith-el to live with her parents. There is no room for you in her father’s establishment and therefore you, Father Dunstable, are dismissed from their service. With loving thanks and references, of course.”
Cardinal Radisovik nodded approvingly. “If they checked your story,” he said, seeing Saryon’s next argument in his face, “which I doubt they would since there are hundreds of catalysts coming and going from the Cathedral every day, it would take them months to track down Lord Whoever He Is and discover the truth.”
“And by that time,” concluded the Prince in a tone that indicated the matter was settled, “you will be with us in Sharakan.”
Hearing a note of irritation creeping into the noble voice, Saryon bowed in acquiescence, fearing that any more argument might appear suspicious. He had to admit that the Prince and the Cardinal were right. Having spent fifteen years in the Cathedral, Saryon had spent many evenings watching the line of newly arrived catalysts shuffle up the crystal stairs and enter the crystal doors. Under the bored eye of some poor Deacon, each catalyst signed his name in a register that was rarely, if ever, looked at again. After all, if one passed the scrutiny of the Kan-hanar — the Gatekeepers of Merilon — who was the Church to quibble? The very idea of a catalyst sneaking into the city in a disguise was so remote to their thinking that it must appear ludicrous.
Still, there was one person who might have reason to expect Saryon to return Merilon, the catalyst thought uncomfortably, his hand going to the darkstone around his neck. He wondered fearfully what actions Bishop Vanya would take to find him, and he began to almost regret the donkey….
The next morning, everyone rose early, before the sun. Now that it was time to part, they were all anxious to begin their various journeys. The young men and Saryon prepared to take their leave of the Prince and his entourage, who were also leaving that day to continue their journey to the Sorcerers’ village.
“All’s well that ends well,” Simkin remarked as they finished breakfast, “as was said of the Lady Magda by the Count d’Orleans. He spoke of her posteriorly, of course.”
“Simkin’s a fool!” croaked the raven, perching upon Simkin’s head.
“It is not an end, but a beginning, I trust,” said Prince Garald, smiling at Joram.
The young man almost, but not quite, returned the smile.
“And now,” continued the Prince, “before the sadness of farewells, I have the pleasant task of giving the Journey Gifts….”
“My lord, that is not necessary,” murmured Saryon, his guilt once more assailing him. “You have done enough for us as it is —”
“Don’t take this pleasure away from me, Father,” Garald interrupted, laying his hand upon the catalysts. “Giving gifts is one of the best parts about being a King’s son.”
Walking over to stand before Mosiah, the Prince clapped his hands once, and then held them out to catch a book that materialized in midair.
“You are a powerful