Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [105]
Lying back, Saryon followed the old man’s movements about the firelit cabin with a strange sense of euphoria, his mind only half attending to the conversation. Even the sight of the old man using the end of the flaming stick to set fire to the top of several tall, thick sticks that stood on crude pedestals did not disturb the catalyst’s strange sense of uncaring relaxation. He was rather startled to notice that the fire did not die out or immediately consume the sticks. A small flame remained burning steadily at the top of each, filling the room with a soft, glowing light.
“The Mannanish is a good woman, very dedicated to her calling. Her healing arts have saved the lives of more than one person in our settlement. But how many more could have lived if her powers of magic had been enhanced? You have no Idea,” the old man said with a sigh, returning to his seat and smiling down at Saryon, “how long I have prayed to the Almin to send us a catalyst.”
“Pray to the Almin?” Saryon was confused for a moment, then the truth penetrated his slow-moving mind. “Ah, of course. “You’re not one of them.”
“One of whom, Father?” the old man asked, his smile broadening slightly.
“The Sorcerers”—Saryon gestured outside, coughing—“these Technologists. Are you a slave?”
Reaching beneath the collar of his long gray robes, the old man brought forth a strange-looking pendant attached to a finely wrought golden chain that hung about his neck. Made of wood, the pendant was carved into the shape of a hollowed-out circle connected by nine spokes.
“Father,” said the old man simply, a look of pride coming into his wrinkled face, “I am Andon, their leader.”
“Steady, Father. That’s right. Lean on my arm. This is your first day out. We don’t want to overdo it.”
Walking slowly beside the old man, his hand on Andon’s arm, Saryon blinked in the bright sunshine as he gratefully drew in a breath of fresh air, fragrant with the smells of late summer.
“Your adventures must have been quite terrifying,” Andon continued as they proceeded slowly out of the cabin’s small yard and into the dirt road that ran through the settlement. Noting the stares of the villagers, the old man acknowledged them with a nod of his head. No one spoke to them, however, although many regarded the catalyst with unabashed curiosity. Their respect and veneration for the old man was obvious, however, and they did not disturb them.
So these are Dark Sorcerers, Saryon thought. Faces of twisted evil passions? Faces of young mothers, nursing small babies. Red, glowing eyes? Tired, weary, work-worn eyes. Chants to the powers of darkness? The laughter of children, playing in the street. The only difference that he saw between these people and those in the village of Walren, or even between these people and those in Merilon, was that these people used little or no magic. Forced to conserve Life since they had no catalysts to replenish it for them, the Sorcerers walked, trudging through the mud of the refuse-strewn street, wearing soft, leather boots.
Saryon’s gaze went to a group of men working busily, shaping a dwelling place. But these were not magi of the Pron-alban, lovingly drawing the stone up out of the earth, skillfully molding it with their magical spells. These men used their hands, stacking the rectangular blocks of unnatural stone one on top of the other. Even the stones themselves were made by the hands of men, so the old man said. Clay put into molds and baked in the sun. Pausing a moment, Saryon watched in grim fascination as the men placed the stone in neat and orderly rows, joining them together with some sort of adhesive substance that they spread between them. But this was not the only use of Technology. Everywhere he looked, in fact, he was confronted with the Dark Arts.
None were more in evidence than the symbol of the coven itself,