Forging the Darksword - Margaret Weis [131]
2
Grant Me Life …
The rain and the journey continued, as did Saryon’s misery. Only now, it was misery tempered with growing fear as they drew nearer and nearer their goal—the small Field Magi settlement of Dunam north of the border of the Outland, about one hundred miles from the sea coast. At least once a day Blachloch called upon the catalyst to grant him Life; never much, just sufficient for defensive purposes or to give his men the magical power to rise above the tops of the trees on the wings of the air to scout the trail ahead.
But, although minor in nature, Saryon knew these for what they were—conditioning, the conditioning of a slave to obey his master’s voice. Each command was always a little more difficult, each required more expenditure of energy on the catalyst’s part, each drained him a little more every day. And always the cold, impassionate eyes of the warlock stared at him from the shadows of the black hood, watching him for the least sign of weakness, of hesitation or resistance.
What Blachloch would have done had his slave rebelled, Saryon did not know. Not once during the entire month-long journey through the Outland did the catalyst ever see the warlock mistreat, threaten, or even speak harshly to anyone. The Duuk-tsarith had no need to resort to such measures. The warlock’s presence alone commanded respect, his eyes turned toward anyone filled them with a vague feeling of terror. To be included as one of the threesome of Blachloch’s nightly tarok games—the warlock’s only indulgence and one to which he was passionately addicted—took either great fortitude or large quantities of fiery spirits. Some simply could not take playing cards for hours in the gaze of those blue, expressionless eyes. Saryon saw men slink into the shadows when evening came and Blachloch drew forth his pack of cards.
Saryon’s guilt and misery deepened. Day after day, the catalyst rode through the rain, his head bowed almost as low as his horse’s. Nothing occurred to mar the drudgery of the ride. Though the bandits saw centaur tracks, they were not attacked. Centaur prefer catching one or two lone humans and will think twice about striking such a large, well-equipped group. Once Saryon thought he caught a glimpse of a giant peering at them from above the treetops, the huge shaggy-haired head seemingly at variance with the popping, childlike eyes and the gaping mouth that grinned in the delight at this tiny parade through his homeland. Before the catalyst could speak or shout an alarm, the figure was gone. Saryon might have doubted his senses, but he felt the ground tremble beneath the thuds of gigantic feet. Later, he was glad he had not mentioned it, listening to some of Blachloch’s men tell stories about the sport they had when they caught one of these big, gentle, dim-witted creatures.
The only sips of pleasure in the catalyst’s bitter cup were the few moments he spent each day with Mosiah. The young man took to riding with Saryon for short spells, most of the time by himself, occasionally (when Mosiah couldn’t get rid of him) with Simkin. Joram, of course, never joined them, although Saryon always noticed the young man riding a short distance behind them, within hearing range. But when the catalyst started to mention this to Mosiah, he only received a quick shake of the head, a swift backward glance, and the whispered words “Don’t pay any attention to him” in return.
The two were an unlikely pair—the tall, stoop-shouldered, middle-aged priest and the fair-haired, handsome youth. Their talk ranged over a wide variety of subjects, nearly always starting with the small doings of the people in Mosiah’s village, which the homesick youth never tired of discussing. After that, however, it ranged far afield, Saryon finding himself talking about his studies, about life in court and the city of Merilon. It was during these times, particularly when he talked about Merilon or when he was discoursing on mathematics (his favorite topic), that he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Joram edging his horse nearer.