Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [116]
Saryon did not hear him. The rushing of blood in his ears was too loud, unbalancing him. It was all he could do to walk.
Glancing out the window, into the darkening evening, Simkin saw the catalyst stagger and nearly fall, then lean wearily against a tree.
“I really should go help the poor chap,” Simkin said. “You were rather brutal with him, after all.”
“He’s lying.”
“Egad, my dear Blachloch, according to you Duuk-tsarith, there isn’t a person alive on this planet from the age of six weeks on up who ever breathes a word of truth.”
“You know the real reason why he is here.”
“I told you already, O Merciless Master. Bishop Vanya sent him.”
The warlock stared at the young man.
Simkin blanched. “It’s the truth. He’s after Joram,” he muttered.
Blachloch raised an eyebrow. “Joram?” he repeated.
Simkin shrugged. “The young man they brought from the settlement half-dead. The dark one with the hair …. Chap who killed the overseer. He works in the forge—”
“I know him,” Blachloch said with a shade of irritation. He continued to stare intently at the young man, who was gazing out the window at Saryon. “Look at me, Simkin,” the warlock said softly.
“Very well, if you insist, although I find you extremely uninteresting,” Simkin replied, attempting to stifle a yawn. Lounging back in his chair, one silk-clad leg thrown over the armrest, he gazed at Blachloch obligingly. “I say, do you use a lemon rinse on your hair? If so, it’s starting to go a bit dark at the roots—” Suddenly, Simkin stiffened, his playful voice grew harsh. “Stop it, Blachloch. I know what … you’re trying to do ….” His words trailed off drowsily. “I’ve been … shrough thish be … bevore …”
Shaking his head, Simkin tried to break free, but the flat blue eyes of the Enforcer held him fast in their unblinking, unwavering stare. Slowly, the eyelids of the young man fluttered, blinked, opened wide, then fluttered, blinked, fluttered, and closed.
Murmuring words of magic, ancient words of power and spellbinding, Blachloch rose slowly and silently to his feet and walked around the desk to stand near Simkin. Chanting the words over and over again in a soothing refrain, he rested his hands upon Simkin’s smooth, shining hair. The warlock closed his eyes and, throwing his head back, exerted all his powers of concentration upon the young man. “Let me see into your mind. The truth, Simkin, tell me everything you know …”
Simkin began to whisper something.
Smiling, Blachloch stooped low to hear.
“I call it … Grape Rose …. Mind the thorns …. I don’t believe … they’re poisonous ….”
9
The Experiment
Night flowed into the village like the dark waters of the river, submerging fears and sorrows in its gentle current. Around the brick houses it crept, its shadows growing deeper and deeper, for it was a cloudy, moonless night. Gradually almost every light in the village was engulfed by the rising darkness, nearly everyone let sleep wash over him, sinking down into the murky depths of dreams.
But when night was at its flood, when the silent waters of sleep were at their deepest, light from the forge continued to glow red, burning away sleep and dreams for one person at least.
The firelight glistened in black curling hair, flickered in brown eyes, and beat upon a face now neither sullen nor angry but intent and eager. Within the fires of the forge, Joram heated iron ore in a crucible, iron that he had ground as finely as he could. The mold for a dagger sat to one side of the young man, but he did not pour the molten iron into it. Instead, he lifted another crucible from the fire, this containing a molten liquid similar in appearance to the iron except for its strange white-purple color.
Joram regarded the second crucible thoughtfully, a look of frustration causing the thick, black brows to contract.
“If I only I knew what they meant,” he muttered. “If only I understood!” Closing his eyes, he called to mind the pages of ancient writing. He could see the letters, could see every shape and twist and idiosyncrasy of the hand that had formed them, in