Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [125]
Shaking his head, Mosiah urged his horse forward until he rode next to the catalyst.
“Excuse me for interrupting your thoughts, Father,” the young man said hesitantly, “but would—would you mind if I kept you company?”
Saryon looked up fearfully, his face strained and tense. Then, seeing only the young man, he appeared to relax. “No, I’d like it very much, in fact.”
“You—you weren’t praying or anything like that, were you, Father?” Mosiah asked in some confusion. “I can leave, if you—”
“No, I wasn’t praying,” Saryon said with a wan smile. “I haven’t done much praying lately,” he added in a low voice, glancing about the wilderness with a shiver. “I’m used to finding the Almin in the corridors of the Font. Not out here. I don’t think He lives out here.”
Mosiah didn’t understand but, seeing a chance for an opening, remarked, “My father talks like that sometimes. He says the Almin dines with the rich and throws scraps to the poor. He doesn’t care about us, so we must get through this life on our own honor and integrity. When we die, that’s the most important thing we leave behind.”
“Jacobias is a very wise man,” Saryon said, looking at Mosiah intently. “I know him. You are Mosiah, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” The young man flushed. “I know you know him. That’s why I came—That is, I didn’t know or I would have come sooner—I mean, Simkin just now told me—”
“I understand.” Saryon nodded gravely. “I should have come to see you. I have messages from your parents, but … I haven’t been well.” It was now the catalyst’s turn to flush uncomfortably. Grimacing in pain, he shifted in his saddle, his gaze going to the figure of Joram disappearing among the trees.
“My parents …” nudged Mosiah, after several moments of silence.
“Oh, yes, I’m sorry,” Saryon roused himself. “They are well and send their love. They miss you very much,” the catalyst said, seeing a look of hunger and longing sweep across the young man’s face. “Your mother gave me a kiss for you, but I don’t suppose I need pass that along personally.”
“No, that’s all right. Thank you, Father,” Mosiah murmured, blushing. “Did—did they say anything else? My father …”
Glancing at the young man, Saryon’s face grew grave and he did not immediately reply.
Mosiah saw the look and understood. “That’s it, isn’t it,” he said bitterly. “I’m in for a lecture.”
“Not a lecture,” Saryon answered, smiling. “He said only that he’d heard some things about these people that he didn’t like to hear. He hoped the rumors weren’t true but, if they were, that you would remember what you were brought up to believe, and that he and your mother loved you, and that you were in their thoughts.”
Looking at the young man, Saryon saw crimson stain the smooth cheeks, where there was just the faintest growth of beard. But the shame—if that’s what it had been—was gone almost immediately, replaced by anger. “What he’s heard is wrong.”
“What about this raid?”
“These people are good people.” Mosiah glared at Saryon defiantly. “All they want is to have the same chance at life others have. All right,” he said quickly when it seemed Saryon would speak, “maybe I don’t like some of what they do, maybe I don’t think it’s right. But we have a right to survive.”
“By doing this? By robbing others? Andon tells me—”
Mosiah made an impatient gesture. “Andon is an old man—”
“He tells me that before the coming of Blachloch, the Technologists were able to provide for themselves,” Saryon continued. “They farmed the land, using tools instead of magic.”
“We don’t have time now. We’re working too hard. We have to eat this winter!” Mosiah retorted angrily.
“So do the people we’re robbing.”
“We don’t take much. Joram said so. We leave