Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [102]
Too tired to think clearly or even to marvel at this strange occurrence, Saryon hitched his robes up around his waist and, catching hold of a low-hanging bough, pulled himself up into the tree that was standing on the edge of the rock ledge.
“Higher! You’ve got to climb higher!”
Clinging to the trunk, Saryon managed to scrabble his way up a little farther. Then he came to a stop. Pressing his cheek against the limb, he shook his head. “I … can’t … go … any further ….”he murmured brokenly.
“All right!” The tree sounded irritated. “Hold still. Thank goodness you’re wearing green.”
This won’t fool them, Saryon thought, listening to the voices echoing in the cavern. All it will take is one of them to look up here or fly up here and—
A gust of wind hit the tree and a limb beneath Saryon’s feet gave way with a sudden snap. Grasping hold of a branch, pulling himself up, the catalyst stared down at the splintered limb and hope vanished completely. Brown and dried up inside, the limb was dead, as dead as he himself was going to be soon. Another gust swirled about the mountain, another dead branch fell to the ledge. Beneath him, Saryon could feel the entire tree shaking and shivering. There was a crack, then a snapping and rending sound. Finally, with a heartrending shudder, the tree toppled over the edge of the cliff.
Clinging to Simkin’s bark and leaves, Saryon heard the young man murmuring to himself as they fell.
“Strike me dead! I’m rotten.”
6
The Coven of the Wheel
“So this is the catalyst.”
“Yes, dear boy. Not a very imposing specimen, is he? Still, there must be more to him than was readily apparent to me after our little outing. He’s been sent here after you, Joram.”
“Sent? Who sent him?”
“Bishop Vanya.”
“Oh, and the catalyst told you that, did he, Simkin?”
“Of course, Mosiah. I’m in the old chaps complete confidence. He thinks of me as the son he never had. Told me so many times. Not that I trust him. After all, he is a catalyst. But I heard the same thing from Bishop Vanya—about Joram, that is. Not about me being the son he never had.”
“And I suppose the Emperor sent along his regards …”
“I’m sure I don’t know why he would. Not to you peasants. Go ahead and laugh. I have merely to await the day of my vindication. This Saryon is after you, Dark One.”
“He looks in fairly bad shape. What did you do to him?”
“Nothing! ’Pon my honor. Is it my fault, Mosiah, that it is a cruel and vicious world out there? A world into which, I daresay, our catalyst will not soon dare to venture by himself.”
Saryon awakened with a sneeze.
His head was clogged and aching, and he was afflicted with a sore, raw throat. Coughing, the catalyst huddled into his robes, afraid to open his eyes. He was lying in a bed, but where? In my own bed, in my cell in the Font, he told himself. When I open my eyes, that’s what I’ll see. This has all been a dream.
For several pleasant minutes he lay wrapped in his blankets, pretending. He even pictured all the old familiar objects in his room, his books, the tapestries he’d brought from Merlion, all would be there, just as it was.
Then he heard someone moving about. Sighing, Saryon opened his eyes.
He was in a small room, the likes of which he had never seen before. Pale sunlight filtering through a cracked window illuminated a scene the catalyst might have pictured existing Beyond. The walls of the room were not shaped of stone or of wood, but were made up of perfectly formed rectangles arranged one on top of the other. It had a most unnatural appearance and, looking at it, the catalyst shuddered. Everything in the room appeared unnatural, in fact, he noticed with growing horror as he propped himself up to look around. A table in the center had not been crafted lovingly from a single piece of wood, but was made up of several different pieces of wood brutally forced together. Several chairs were formed the same way, looking misshapen and fiendish. If Saryon had seen a human being walking about whose body had been made from the bodies of other dead humans,