Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [93]
“Joram —” Saryon began brokenly, but he could not continue. Before Saryon could stop him, the young man moved out of the pew and knelt on the floor at the catalyst’s feet. The dark eyes turned away from the sunlit window and Saryon saw them glowing with an intensity that recalled the forge fires, the coals burning brighter and brighter as the breath of the bellows gave them life; a life that would reduce them — in the end — to ashes.
“Father,” Joram said earnestly, “I need your counsel, your help. I love her, Saryon! All night, I couldn’t sleep — I didn’t want to sleep, for that would have meant losing her image in my heart and I couldn’t bear it, not even for an instant. Not even for the chance that I might dream of her. I love her and” — the young man’s voice changed subtlely, becoming darker, cooller, “— and I want her, Father.”
“Joram!” The pain in Saryon’s heart was like a physical obstruction. He wanted to say so much, but the only words that burst forth through the terrible ache were, “Joram, you are Dead!”
“Damn that!” Joram cried in anger.
Saryon glanced fearfully at the door again and Joram, springing to his feet, strode across the small room and slammed it shut. Turning, he pointed at the catalyst. “Don’t ever say that to me again. I know what I am! I’ve fooled people this long. I can go on fooling them!” He made a furious gesture, pointing upstairs. “Ask Mosiah! He’s known me all my life! Ask him, and he’ll tell you, he’ll swear by his mother’s eyes, that I have magic!”
“But you don’t, Joram,” Saryon said in a low voice that was firm despite his obvious reluctance in saying the words. “You are Dead, completely Dead!” He rubbed his hand along the arm of the pew. “This wood has more Life than you, Joram! I can feel its magic! The magic that lives in everything in this world pulses beneath my fingers. Yet in you there is nothing! Nothing! Don’t you understand!”
“And I’m saying it doesn’t matter!” The dark eyes flared, their heat intense and burning. Leaning down over the pew, Joram gripped Saryon’s arm. “Look at me! When I claim my rights, when I am a noble, it won’t matter! No one will care! All they’ll see is my title and my money —”
“But what about her?” Saryon asked sorrowfully. “What will she see? A Dead man who will give her Dead children?”
The flame from Joram’s eyes seared Saryon’s soul. The young man’s grip tightened on the catalyst’s arm until Saryon winced in pain, but he said nothing. He couldn’t have spoken had he wanted to, his heart was too full. He sat quite still, his compassionate gaze never leaving Joram.
And slowly, the fire in the dark eyes died. Slowly the coals burned themselves out. The light glimmered and was gone, the color drained from the face, leaving the skin pale, the lips ashen. Cold darkness returned. Joram’s grip loosened and he straightened up. His face was, once more, severe, set rock-hard with purpose and resolve. “Thank you once again, Catalyst,” he said evenly, his voice as hard as his face.
“Joram, I’m sorry,” Saryon said, his heart aching.
“No!” Joram held up his hand. For an instant color came back to his skin, his breathing quickened. “You told me the truth, Saryon. And I needed to hear it. It’s something … I’ll have to think about … to deal with.” Drawing a deep breath, he shook his head. “I’m the one who is sorry. I lost control. It won’t happen again. You will help me, won’t you, Father?”
“Joram,” Saryon said gently, rising to his feet to face the young man, “if you truly care about this young girl, you will walk out of her life right now. The only groom’s gift you can bring her is grief.”
Joram stared at Saryon in silence. The catalyst saw his words had touched the young man. There was a struggle going on inside. Maybe what Joram had said was true, maybe he had changed in the long night, or maybe this change