Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [114]
Saryon glanced at Simkin, who was toying with the bit of orange silk, affecting playfully to tie it around the feather in his cap that sat on his lap. The young man neither looked at him nor appeared the least bit interested in the proceedings. There was no help for it but to play this bitter game to its conclusion.
“You are right, Duuk-tsarith—”
Blachloch did not appear disturbed at this use of a title he had no claim to. Saryon had adopted it, hearing one of his henchmen address him as such.
“—I am a scholar. My special field of study is mathematics. Seventeen years ago,” continued Saryon in a low voice that surprised himself with its steadiness, “I committed a crime brought about by my thirst for knowledge. I was caught reading forbidden books—”
“Which forbidden books?” interrupted Blachloch. As Duuk-tsarith he would, of course, be familiar with most banned texts.
“Those dealing with the Ninth Mystery,” Saryon replied.
Blachloch’s eyelids flickered, but otherwise he made no sign. Pausing to see if the warlock had any further questions, Saryon felt rather than saw that Simkin was listening attentively, with unusual interest. The catalyst drew a breath. “I was discovered. Due to my youth, but due more to the fact, I believe, that my mother was cousin to the Empress, my crime was hushed up. I was sent to Merilon, in hopes that I would soon forget my interest in the Dark Arts.”
“Yes, so much I know to be true. Catalyst,” said Blachloch, his hands unmoving, still folded together, still resting on his desk. “Continue.”
Saryon blanched, a tightening sensation gripping his stomach. He had assumed correctly that Blachloch would already know something about him. The man undoubtedly still had contacts among the Enforcers, and such information would not be hard to acquire. Then, of course, there was always Simkin. Who knew what game of his own he was playing?
“I—I discovered that I could not help myself, however. I am … fascinated by the Dark Arts. I was … an embarrassment to my Order at Court. It was a simple thing to have myself transferred back to the Font where I hoped to continue—in secret, of course—my studies. That was not to be, however. My mother had just recently died. I had formed no strong ties nor attachments at court. I was, therefore, considered a threat and so I was sent to the settlement of Walren.”
“A wretched life—Field Catalyst, but a secure one,” Blachloch remarked. “Certainly better than life in the Outland.” Moving slowly and deliberately, the two index fingers of the warlock’s hands unfolded and extended themselves. It was the first sign of movement the man had made since they entered, and both Simkin and Saryon could not help but watch, fascinated, as the fingers came together, a flesh-and-bone dagger, pointing at the catalyst. “Why did you leave?”
“I heard about the Coven,” Saryon answered, maintaining his steady tone. “I was rotting in that village. My mind was turning to mush. I came here to study and learn … the Dark Arts.”
Blachloch did not move or speak. The fingers remained pointed at Saryon and, if they had been a dagger held to his throat, he could have felt no greater pain or fear than he experienced staring at them as they rested upon the desk.
“Very well,” Blachloch said suddenly, the sound of his voice making the near-hypnotized catalyst start. “You will study. Only you must learn not to faint at the sight of the iron forge.”
Blood rushed to Saryon’s face. Lowering his head before the gaze of those flat eyes, he hoped it would be taken for confusion, not for guilt. It hadn’t been the sight of the forge itself that upset him—not nearly as much as the sight of Joram.
“You will be given a house in the village and share in our food. But, like everyone else here, you will be expected to work for us in return …”
“I will be more than happy to provide my services