Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [92]
Lord Samuels and family, being only of the upper middle class, wore very fine, but very plain, slippers of silk. They did not fit particularly well — they didn’t need to — and Gwen’s slipper fell from her foot before leaving the house. Joram retrieved it and was granted the honor by Gwen — following a timid glance at her father — of putting the slipper once more upon her small white foot. This Joram did, under the severe and watchful gaze of Lord Samuels, and the family proceeded on its way. But Saryon saw the look Joram gave Gwendolyn; he saw the color come to Gwen’s cheeks and the breasts beneath her filmy gown rise and fall faster. The two were obviously plunging headfirst into love with all the speed and direction of two boulders plummeting down the side of a cliff.
Saryon was considering this unforeseen occurrence, feeling its weight increase the burden he bore, when a shadow fell across the catalyst. His head jerking up in alarm, Saryon breathed a sign of relief when he saw it was Joram.
“Forgive me, Catalyst, if I am disturbing your prayers …” the young man began in the cold tones he was accustomed to using when speaking to Saryon. Then he fell silent abruptly, staring moodily at the door, his dark eyes unreadable.
“You are not disturbing me,” Saryon said, rising slowly to his feet, his hand on the back of the ornately shaped wooden pew. “I am glad you have come, in fact. I want very much to talk with you.”
“The truth is, Ca —” Joram swallowed, his eyes shifted to the catalyst’s face — “Saryon,” he said haltingly, “is that I came here to … to thank you.”
Saryon sat down rather suddenly upon the velvet pew cushions.
Seeing the astonished expression on the catalyst’s face, Joram smiled ruefully — a smile that twisted his lip and brought a deeply buried glimmer of light to the dark eyes. “I’ve been a thankless bastard, haven’t I,” he said, a statement, not a question. “Prince Garald told me, but I didn’t believe him. It wasn’t until last night — I didn’t sleep much last night,” he added, a slow flush spreading over his tan face, “as you might guess.
“Last night” — he spoke the words reverently, with a lingering softness, sounding like a young, dedicated novitiate praising the Almin — “I changed last night, Cata — Saryon. I thought about everything Garald said to me and — suddenly — it made sense! I saw what I had been, and I hated myself!” He spoke rapidly, without thinking, purging his soul. “I realized what you did for us yesterday, how your quick thinking saved us … You have saved us — saved me — more than once and I’ve never —”
“Hush,” whispered Saryon, glancing fearfully at the chapel door that stood partially open.
Following his gaze and understanding, Joram lowered his voice. “— never said a word of thanks. For that … and for everything else you’ve done for me.” His hand motioned to the Darksword that he wore strapped in its sheath on his back, hidden beneath his clothes. “The Almin knows why you did it,” he added bitterly. Sitting down on the pew beside Saryon, Joram looked up at the window, his dark eyes reflecting the beautiful colors of the glass.
“I used to tell myself that you were like me, only you wouldn’t admit it,” Joram continued, speaking softly. “I liked to believe that you were using me to help yourself. I used to think that about everyone, only most were too hypocritical to admit the truth.
“But that’s changed.” The reflected light gleamed brightly in Joram’s black eyes, reminding the catalyst of a rainbow against a storm-darkened sky. “I know now what it is to care about someone,” he said, raising his hand to prevent Saryon from interrupting him, “and I know that you did what went against your conscience because you cared for others, not because you were afraid